


1 + 1 = 0

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Cuddling & Snuggling, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Friendship/Love, Human Castiel, M/M, One Shot, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is terrible at math and relationships but not so terrible at accidental cuddling. An attempt to fill in the infamous 9x06 "fanfiction gap."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1 + 1 = 0

**Author's Note:**

> Although not necessary, you may want to read my other drabble, _Guts,_ for a little bit of context first since this makes a small reference to it.

Math’s never been your strong suit.

Least, that’s what you tell Cas when the two of you make it back to your motel room, coughing into your sleeve as you dig through your duffle for some bandages and a bottle of disinfectant. Yeah, okay, so maybe there’s just the one bed. And maybe you just asked Cas if he wanted to stay the night. It’s not like you meant to fucking  _proposition_  the dude. You just meant, you know, hanging out and having a couple beers, ordering take-out, and if it gets too late…well, no sense in driving him back to his place when he could just crash here for a bit, right? Chances are, you’ll fall asleep in the damn chair watching reruns of  _Happy Days_  or  _Three’s Company,_  anyway.

'Sides. You didn't even track him down till today, and you're probably gonna have to head back to the bunker tomorrow. Seems kinda lame to make a 28-hour round trip just to…uh. Work a case for only a few hours.

"I hope you’re better at dressing a wound than rudimentary arithmetic," Cas says, taking a seat at the edge of the bed as he rolls up his sleeve.

Good to see the whole human thing hasn’t killed his sense of humor…the non-funny kind. You give him a look, but it still takes some effort to stifle a grin. “Shut up and give me your hand, will ya?” It ain’t so bad when you examine the damage; just a few cuts and a sprained elbow. Nothin’ you can’t fix, though Cas gets a little squirmy on you when you apply the disinfectant.

"Is it supposed to sting like that?"

"Yeah, sorry. Means it’s working."

He sighs through his nose, gritting his teeth.

"You, uh…you can really feel pain now, huh?"

Cas doesn’t say anything at first, but you still notice the flex in the back of his jaw when he looks the other way. “This level of sensitivity to pain is…highly inconvenient,” he finally huffs out.

"Well, yeah, it can hurt like a bitch. But it’s kinda like the body’s way of telling you something’s wrong, you know?"

It takes all of two seconds for you to regret saying those words. Soon as Cas looks up at you, it hits you right in the gut. Same as it did when you first strolled into the Gas-N-Sip, all smiles and hoping to surprise an old friend, only to see that their face wasn’t exactly matching yours.

Makes you start wondering if there’s some things you can’t fix.

"So, you feel like Chinese? I know how you like the ethnic grub." Then again, being up in the ass crack of Idaho, "ethnic" might be a bit like slapping a piece of lettuce on a bacon cheeseburger and calling it healthy.

Cas doesn’t give you so much as a glance. “Whatever you want to do is fine, Dean.” He’s tuning out already, reaching for the remote and flipping through the channels.

"You wanna come down to the corner store with me and pick up a six-pack?"

"No."

"Well, can’t blame you, I guess. S’pose I wouldn’t wanna go anywhere that reminds me of work, either." Your hand’s on the knob with one foot inside the door, as if Cas is gonna change his mind any second now. But the silence has a way of edging you out. "All right," you mutter under your breath. Apparently, it’s gonna be a one-man job tonight.

Over a few cartons of lo mein and sweet ‘n’ sour chicken, you make a handful of half-hearted attempts at jokes, maybe ramble off a couple anecdotes about you and Sam having some real close calls—always hilarious in hindsight, right?—but you get the feeling Cas is more entertained by the idea of chopsticks than whatever’s comin’ out your mouth. Not that you’re all that surprised; you wouldn’t want to listen to somebody talking out of his ass, either.

Eventually, you just sit back and nurse your beer, watching as Cas stares at the fortune cookie like it’s reading him instead of the other way around. You almost begin to think he’s never seen one before. Which. Well. He probably hasn’t.

“‘Never underestimate the power of the human touch.’” His brow gets all crinkly just like the slip of paper in his fingers. “I don’t understand. Most humans are quite weak.”

It’s enough to make you snort down into your drink, at least. “It’s just some hokey sentimental crap meant to be all inspiring and shit. I don’t get it, either, man.”

'Course, then you remember that day you had both hands on his cheeks. How there was a time where you swore yourself blue in the face that you'd never leave him behind. How you hated the fact that you couldn't get him to look you in the eye 'cause it just reminded you that you couldn't even stand to look at yourself in the mirror. How every freaking bone in your damn body wanted to tell him the whole ugly mess of a truth. How  _you’re_  a mess. How you wanted to keep him around.

How maybe…you just wanted to keep him, period.

Your ears are perked for the moment you’re expecting him to finally bring it up—that whole conversation you had about spilling guts when you dumped him off at the bus station—but he never says a peep about it.

Not a damn friggin’ thing.

You blow through it, just like you always do. ‘Cause it’s the only thing you know how to do. God knows you’ve had enough practice with Sam pretending everything’s downright peachy, and you barely even hear the  _'Cept Cas was supposed to be different_  because you’ve already shoved it to the back of your mind. Instead, you start asking him things, empty questions to fill the empty spaces between you two, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being left to your own thoughts. So you ask about the job, if he’s tried all the slushie flavors and what he thinks of the people he works with, though you steer clear of the whole Nora thing. After hearing how the evening totally bombed, you figure she’s a bit of a touchy subject right now. You ask if he does anything for fun, if he’s been to the movies yet and how his journey into—what’d he call it?—hedonism’s going. Till he shuts up when you get to asking him about his apartment, and shit, there’s that sinking feeling again.

"Wait, Cas." You lean over, moving a hand towards him but settling for the chair arm when he shirks away. "You do have a place to live, right? Least a motel room?"

He tilts his neck slightly, as if he’s trying to work out some kind of kink. “I’m fine, Dean. I’ve found a…temporary solution until I’ve saved enough money to pay for my own living arrangements.”

"Temporary solution?" Then it hits you—after the angel of death slash baby fiasco, you overheard Nora teasing Cas about not working so hard and doing overnights or he’ll burn out before the end of the year. "You’re camping out at the Gas-N-Sip, aren’t you?"

Cas keeps his lips pressed together, taking more of an interest in the scuff marks on the wall. Shit, Cas,  _talk._  ”You know that’s what those credit cards were for, right? To least get you on your–”

He cuts you off with a roll of the eyes. “I know what a credit card is, Dean.”

"Then what the hell happened?"

Seems like an eternity before Cas manages to spit out the truth. “I was out late one night in an unfamiliar part of town. I got disoriented, and…I was robbed.”

"So why didn’t you call me?"

His head’s still bowed as he puts his hands on his knees. Not so much as a flicker of eye contact. “I was too embarrassed to tell you.”

"Too embarrassed?" Your mouth is moving, but you’re not sure if you’re grasping at the right words. Or even what the right words  _are._  ”Well, you didn’t let him get away with it, right?”

Those probably aren’t it, judging by the kind of look Cas gives you like he’s about to bore into your fucking skull. “The man had me at gunpoint; what was I supposed to do?”

"Kick his ass!"

"With what, Dean? I told you—I had nothing. No powers, no… _nothing._ ”

Now you’re the one bowing your head, too embarrassed to say a damn thing.

"At least with this job, I’ve been able to start putting funds towards first month’s rent and deposit," he continues to say. "Though admittedly, it’s taking longer than I would have hoped. I don’t understand how your government expects people to live on what you call ‘minimum wage.’"

And all you can think about is about how it’s your fault. It’s all your fucking fault.

Cas gets up from his chair, wearily making his way over to the garbage can as he tosses the empty Chinese food cartons. You wanna tell him it’ll be okay, that tomorrow, you’ll work it all out ‘cause he’s sure as hell not kicking it on a yoga mat in some friggin’ storeroom for another night. “Listen, Cas–”

"I’m tired, Dean. It’s been a long day, and I want to make sure I’m well-rested before my shift tomorrow. Those tacquitos won’t heat themselves." He straightens up before you can make a weak ass attempt at a joke.  _Don’t forget the nachos._  ”Now, are there any extra blankets?”

You see him eyeing the space between the heater and the nightstand. “Forget it, Cas; I’m not letting you sleep on the floor. You’re taking the other side of the bed.”

"And you’re…comfortable with that?"

You shrug like he’s ridiculous for even asking the question—’cause he is. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Not like you and Sammy haven’t had to share a bed before. Though you usually ended up eating carpet, anyway, because Sasquatch couldn’t keep his feet to himself.

"I seem to remember times where you’ve expressed displeasure about ‘personal space.’"

"Yeah, ‘cause you freakin’ scared the bejesus out of me popping in like that! And also, the whole watching me sleep thing? Still creepy." Though not always unappreciated. There’ve been nights that not even you wanted to check under the bed. "But you’re not sleeping on the floor, ‘kay? Not if you don’t wanna wake up to a bad back or one hell of a crick in the neck."

Cas throws up his hands, clearly not in a debating mood. “As you wish.”

"Gee, don’t sound so excited." You toss him a t-shirt and an extra pair of sweatpants. "Here."

"What are these for?"

"You’re not sleeping in your work clothes, and I can tell you right now, you’re not sleeping in the raw, so…yeah."

Cas is out like a light even before you sneak under the covers. That’s just what you’re gonna assume, anyway; it’s better than thinking he’s using it as an excuse to ignore you. At least with him all curled up on his side and his back facing you, seems like he’s got a better handle on body-to-bed ratio.

You jerk awake only a few hours later, a dream leaving a bad taste in your mouth, though your brain is fuzzy on the details. Going to bed before midnight means your internal clock kicks in right about three or four a.m., and lately, falling back asleep hasn’t been possible without a doozy of a nightcap to knock you out till the sun comes up. Body’s been feelin’ more restless than usual, like you’re carrying around 180 pounds of lead weight that you just can’t shake off.

You don’t even remember anymore, do you? The days you could let it roll off your shoulders. And maybe you’re an idiot for even thinkin’ it, but you were hoping Cas would be a reprieve from all that. Something to put the wind back in your lungs. That breath of fresh air.

'Cept that breath of fresh air's smelling a lot like…mango?

First thought: Not a bad shampoo choice. A bit fruitier than you’d prefer, but s’pose you can just imagine it’s some kinda tropical pie.

Second thought: Why the fuck is your nose stuck in Cas’ hair?

You wiggle around a little, only to find that you can’t feel your left arm because it’s shoved underneath Cas’ side. As for your right arm, apparently, it decided it needed a change of scenery and slinked itself over his waist when you weren’t looking. You try scooting away to give yourselves some breathing room, but you hear Cas mumbling something in his sleep as he grabs your hand and pulls it back.

Okay, well, this is…

…not as weird as it should be.

You crane your head towards the greenish glow of the clock. Still a couple hours before you have to get up. Sure, you could force the guy off of you, but you can’t disturb him like this. Hey, someone needs to man the hot dog roller and make sure those wieners don’t get cold.

Ugh, wrong,  _wrong_  choice of words, Winchester.

So you do the only thing you can do: settle in. You’ll probably come up with some lame excuse in the morning about how your limbs have a mind of their own in the middle of the night, but for the moment, it’s…actually kind of nice. Having a warm body next to you again.

And suddenly, it sinks in that you’re in bed with Cas. You’re in bed with Cas and your arm is around him and you’re fucking spooning the dude. Like legit crotch-to-ass action right now, which for some disturbing reason spirals into questioning yourself about the last time you had sex. It’s only been, like, what…?

Oh, God, you actually have to  _think_  about it, don’t you?

Strange thing is, after the initial shock wears off, you realize maybe that’s beginning to not matter as much as it used to.

That maybe there’s more important things to care about.

This whole caring business, though—it’s a real bitch. Something that leaves a pinch in your chest when you know you’re getting too close. ‘Cause even if Zeke wasn’t being a douchebag and you could tell Cas to come back home, how long would that last before something else comes along to fuck it up? Shit, he’s still in the dark about Metatron’s spell being irreversible. How’re you supposed to break something like that to him? You’d think it’d be easy considering you’re the expert on ruining people’s lives. Because you, Dean fucking Winchester—you break everything you touch. And if Cas’ found even the slightest bit of peace here in Idaho, he deserves a life without you gumming it up.

He deserves better than you.

But for the next two hours, you’re gonna ignore that lump in your throat and the ache in your ribs as you inch up next to him, nose nearly pressed against skin when you sigh into the back of his neck. “God, I wish things were different, Cas. I really do.” And you don’t even catch yourself until after you do it, but you’re rubbing a thumb across his knuckles, sucking in all of his warmth as you pull him a little closer. You almost swear he squeezes you back.

Yeah. Definitely doesn’t feel as weird as you think it should.

Fuck.


End file.
